After Match
by sonofon
Summary: Shiraishi x Fuji oneshots. Because there is more to their story than just a semi-final match. Challenges from reckless-rage.
1. After Match

A/N: A challenge from rage-chan. This takes place after the Nationals semi-final.

**After Match**

by: sonofon

--

From the moment Fuji's match with Shiraishi ends, he is caught in a whirlwind. A wave overcomes him, and he is confused, really, by the range of emotions exhibited, but it is a tight grip on his wrist that leads him away. His first thought is that it is from Kawamura; he is bringing Fuji back to the others.

Fuji isn't sure what to say: what is there to say after you've lost your first official singles match? He feels faint, almost, but not from exhaustion. He feels as if he could play ten more hours of tennis if he wanted to, and a small part of him suddenly wishes to do this.

But he can't.

For Fuji realizes where he is. That he isn't with his teammates comforting him, and even Ryuzaki sensei isn't there to even scold him (though she probably wouldn't have found the right words to say).

No, because Fuji sees that he is in a café; that the face sitting across from him is none other than his conqueror: Shiraishi Kuranosuke.

"You still out of it?" He seems comfortable, where he is. An elbow languidly placed on the table in a vertical manner so that he can rest his chin in the palm of his hand. He gives Fuji a look. "You've looked dizzy for a while."

"No." This is Fuji's instinct. He doesn't know why he is sitting with Shiraishi; he doesn't want to be here. Even Echizen's glare or 'mada mada dane' would be better. He smiles a sad smile and thinks that for the first time, he may have deserved it. Opportunities of victory come only so many times, and to waste such a moment, a gift, really, is shameful. Fuji knows this.

"You look like you've been trampled by elephants or something," Shiraishi observes.

"I don't know what gives you that idea," Fuji replies. "But, really"–he begins to stand to up–"please excuse me. I've other places to be." He thinks of Seigaku; would they have wondered where he was?

"Leaving already?" Shiraishi raises one incredulous eyebrow. "I haven't even treated you yet."

"Excuse me, but I see no reason for you to even treat–"

"It's customary," and he reaches across the table and holds onto Fuji's arm in a tightening hold that is at once gentle and firm, "for the winner to treat the loser, no?" It forces Fuji to think that it was probably in this way that Shiraishi brought him here.

"I would prefer it," Fuji manages through slightly clenched teeth with still maintaining an eerie smile, "if you did not refer to me as 'loser'." This is the first time he's been called that. It's almost disconcerting.

"But it's true," Shiraishi points out, and he is, of course, right. Fuji sits back down, and the other boy hands him a menu. "They have good sandwiches," he adds.

"I don't see why you expect me to be here," Fuji says, refusing to open the menu. It sits contentedly on the checkered tablecloth; it almost seems to be waiting for him to open it up.

"I said," he repeats, "the winner treats the loser. So we're here."

"You could have asked."

"But would you have said yes?"

Fuji doesn't come up with a reply. Shiraishi takes that as no. "Pick something. Anything. The waitress has been waiting patiently for some time now."

Taking another breath to calm himself down, the tensai says, "Do you really expect me to sit _here_ with you and eat?" The way Fuji says 'here', it is almost as if they are currently dining at the mouth of a black hole that is only too eager to suck them in. Shiraishi looks offended.

"Fine," he finally says, "I'll order for you then."

"That is hardly what I mean–"

Too late. With a knowing glance at the waitress, Shiraishi beckons her over, and before Fuji can object, two orders of some mysterious meal has been made, and glasses of cold water are set in front of them.

"Might as well enjoy it," Shiraishi says, offering a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"Oh, sure," he replies. He crosses his arms and musters as furtive of a look as he's ever given. Shiraishi, unfortunately, doesn't seem to notice.

"They've been open for years," he instead says. "I always like to come here. Good food."

"Really," Fuji says.

"Of course," Shiraishi says.

When the food comes, Fuji looks hesitantly over at it while Shiraishi begins eating without a second thought. He takes a bite of the sandwich (which he still doesn't know what it is). He chews. It's quite spicy.

Surprised, Fuji looks up at Shiraishi, who returns the look with a grin. So Fuji looks down at his sandwich, then at Shiraishi; finally, he begins to eat.

For the first time after his match, he feels the pang of his hunger catch up to him, and besides, what is being offered is free food, which Fuji would never want turn down.

And so, for the second time that day, Shiraishi has won.


	2. To start a family

A/N: All ShiraiFu oneshots will be posted here from now on. They are all, unless otherwise named, challenges from rage-chan. And also, none of these oneshots take place in any particular time or order.

Summary: Fuji contemplates starting a family with Shiraishi, with Chitose as the children's godfather, Oishi as the godmother, and Jirou as the perpetually sleeping tooth fairy. Yes, chil_ren._

--

When Fuji, out of the blue one day, says, "I want children," Shiraishi does what is normal, that is, running away and hiding behind a chair in the hopes that Fuji is joking, Fuji _better_ be joking, and if he isn't, Shiraishi will simply crumple up and spontaneously combust.

But Fuji says, "I'm not kidding," and he smiles his eerily beautiful smile, the one that Shiraishi always falls for when they've gone drinking and either of them are too drunk to understand anything going on around them. It is the smile that Fuji smiles to get him what he wants. Shiraishi counters,

"No. You're joking. You have to be," he says, still hiding half his body behind the chair, and he wonders why there isn't a biosphere surrounding Fuji so his presence is hidden and mysterious to the public. Then, he realizes that Fuji would be hidden and mysterious even if he _wasn't_ in a biosphere, but by this time, the brunette had taken a step closer to Shiraishi, and he doesn't look like he's joking.

Shiraishi involuntarily gulps.

"I think Chitose would be a good godfather, don't you?" Fuji readily says, and his fingers reach over and trap Shiraishi's left hand in a tightening grip. He wonders if Fuji is going to rape him.

He nods because it seems to be the best action to take. The (relatively) safe one, at least.

"And Oishi," Fuji pauses. "Oishi could be the godmother. Who wouldn't want Oishi to be their godmother?"

Not Shiraishi, of course. He tries to pry his hand away to safety, but Fuji is stronger than he looks. Perhaps he has been working out lately, Shiraishi thinks. Or maybe it's steroids. But a quick glance to Fuji's calming face solve neither of his two questions.

"Oh. By the way, I've been following Atobe's gym workout. It works wonders, you know." The way Fuji says this, from the fake surprise to the satisfied grin at the end makes Shiraishi thinks that Fuji is secretly a physic. How else would he be able to play tennis with eyes closed?

Shiraishi then wonders if his will includes the new clause that he had thought of earlier. Or would it be too late to get it in?

"Jirou." Fuji says the name with almost venom on his tongue. He has taken to stroking Shiraishi's hand, and never, Shiraishi thinks, had such an innocuous act made Fuji seem so much like a _pedophile_. He almost jumps out of his skin.

"What about Jirou?" Shiraishi says, mainly to keep the conversation going so the attention is kept on Jirou and not him. Fuji (finally) stops stroking his hand, but his grip has not lessened one bit. Shiraishi thinks that it might be time to start Atobe's gym workout.

"He could be...our perpetually asleep tooth fairy," Fuji finishes, and for the first time, he has opened his eyes. "For the children."

"Oh," says Shiraishi. "Oh." A quick search of names through his memory brings him to Akutgawa Jirou, the regular from Hyoutei who always seemed to prefer sleeping to tennis. The blasphemy.

"Yes," Fuji agrees. "It would be perfect, no?"

Whether this is a rhetorical question or not, Shiraishi is not sure. He would like to think it is -- because truthfully, his answer is no, it would not be perfect _at all_.

But he nods anyway so he can treasure the wonderful act of breathing air, if only for a few minutes more. Ah, breathing. Crisp oxygen. And then he remembers a very important word that Fuji has said, and that is 'children'.

"Wait," Shiraishi says slowly, "you said children?"

"Yes. Children." And the relaxed look on his face is definitely _not_ what Shiraishi wants to see at this moment in time.

"As in," he clarifies, "more than one?"

"Of course. Children is plural. So yes, more than one." Fuji smiles, but it is not a beautiful smile, Shiraishi thinks; this is the smile a venus flytrap would smile before it engulfed its next victim. "Is there a problem?"

There are many problems that Shiraishi can think of, but Fuji's grip is still strong. So he says, "No."

And Fuji replies, "Good. I didn't think there would be." And then he smiles.

And then Shiraishi begins to list everything he is thankful for, and he wonders if he remembered to leave his tennis raquet in his will to Chitose and _not_ Kintarou.

END


	3. Cactus

A/N: Challenge from rage-chan. This took a while. Oops.

Summary: Fuji pays a lot of attention to his pet cactus, so much that Shiraishi almost gets jealous. Almost.

--

A normal morning for Fuji begins like this: he wakes up, turns to his side of the bed, and strokes his cactus while it sits contently on the nightstand in its own pot that Fuji had singlehandedly picked out a long time ago.

The cactus itself is imported from Africa or somewhere like that, which, in other words, means that it is special.

Very special.

He strokes it gently, partly because he doesn't want to hurt Cactus and partly because he doesn't want to hurt himself by pricking his finger. Sometimes, he'll say soothing words to it, something along the lines of, "Good morning, Cactus," or "How are you today?"

Then he'll check the clock on the wall, and he'll see that it is still early, probably only five or so, and Shiraishi is still asleep on the other side of the bed. He will continue fawning over Cactus for as long as Shiraishi is still asleep, because it is when he awakes that the problem begins.

And the problem is this: Shiraishi gets jealous, or as close to jealous as he can get.

When he sees Fuji stroke Cactus's needles, he can't help but wonder why Fuji never stokes _him_ like that. He talks to it in a calming voice, and he waters it as often as he can. The Watering Procession is a delicate one; Fuji turns up his sleeves to avoid them from getting wet, and he holds the watering bucket above the pot, and he pours the tap water as if it were tea, as if he was pouring it into an expensive porcelain teacup, and not an African-imported cactus's pot.

This causes Shiraishi to think that Fuji spends more time on Cactus than him.

"Of course not," Fuji says when the question is raised, but it's probably just him saying that. In the mornings when Fuji has extra time to goof off, he'll just sit at the bedside, and he'll talk to Cactus. _Talk_.

And he has meaningful conversations with Cactus, and Cactus always agrees with Fuji because Cactus can't say anything in reply. Shiraishi thinks that Fuji and Cactus have more conversations together than he and Fuji, which in turn prompts him to wonder if Fuji is only with him for the sex. It's quite probable, he thinks. After all, you can't really sleep with a cactus without hurting yourself, and even Fuji wouldn't risk hedonistic pleasures for a possibly permanent trip to the hospital, right?

So when Fuji one day argues that Cactus should count as a vote in their household, and therefore Fuji wins two to one in a matter of whether they should buy a new microwave or not, Shiraishi snaps.

"Why do you love that cactus so much in first place?" he demands.

Fuji looks insulted. "Cactus has a name, you know," he informs Shiraishi. "Ask me that again. Properly."

"Yeah. Right," Shiraishi counters, placing his hands on his hips. He has his lines ready. "I have to wonder about your level of commitment to our relationship sometimes."

"Oh," says Fuji, not looking fazed at all. "You're worried about that?"

"Do not refer to our relationship as simply 'that'," Shiraishi retorts, "it's degrading."

"Maybe Cactus should be here." Fuji's head turns towards their bedroom where Cactus is waiting ever so patiently, as he always reminds an increasingly short-fused Shiraishi.

"Why should that damn cactus matter anything?" Shiraishi almost shouts this. This is how mad, or as close to mad, he is.

"Oh," Fuji finally says, "so basically, you want me to pay more attention to you?" He takes one step closer to Shiraishi. "That's it?"

"What are you talking about, 'That's it'?" Shiraishi tries, but it's too late: Fuji is on him. "Oh, wait. Wait."

Shit. Why, oh why, did he have to say anything in the first place?

"Wait for what?" Fuji says, and his voice suddenly seems huskier. He lifts his head up towards Shiraishi's face.

"Er. I have to go to the bathroom?" It's a last-ditch resort, and they both know it. His voice unintentionally ends an octave higher than he'd intended.

"You can wait a few minutes, right?" And Fuji's hand darts down to the back pocket of Shiraishi's jeans. It stays there. Though he is shorter than him, it seems like Fuji, who is standing in front of him, has suddenly become a giant.

"Um. Right." He gulps, and he wonders if it is too late to ask for Fuji to revert his attention to Cactus. After all, it _does_ look due for its third watering in the last hour.


	4. A Cemetery Test

A/N: Challenge from rage-chan.

Summary: Wherein Shiraishi is in a cemetery to prove his love for Fuji, and Fuji acts as if being in a cemetery is no big deal.

--

Shiraishi is in a cemetery.

He really is; the wind howling for the second time since he's set foot there confirms this fact.

"Hey," he says, to no one in particular, "care to remind why we're here again?" He shivers.

"Don't you know?" Fuji supplies. "It's an age-old test for couples. Common practice, you know. People have been doing this for thousands of years. It's to prove your love for your partner."

Shiraishi frowns and begins to wonder why he hadn't brought a jacket. The temperature must be in the thirties, or at least, it feels that way.

"We don't need unnecessary clothing like jackets," Fuji continues, looking positively warm in his T-shirt. He looks at Shiraishi, who is still shivering and secretly cursing Fuji for hiding all of their apartment's jackets. "Are you cold?" he asks in a completely innocent tone.

"Do I _look_ cold?" Shiraishi shoots back.

"Jackets are unnecessary," Fuji says, "when we have each other. If you're cold, we can cuddle."

"_Cuddle_?" The way Shiraishi says this is as if Fuji has just suggested they infect each other with HIV and jump off a cliff together just for the hell of it.

"Yes, cuddle. Is there something wrong with that?" And Fuji smiles and holds out his hand so Shiraishi can take it, and then they can cuddle.

"No way," he says. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Oh?" Fuji smiles. "Then don't come to me later when your arm is about to fall off from hyperventilating, okay?"

"It's _not_ going to fall off," Shiraishi reassures him. "My arm, at least."

Fuji shrugs. "Whatever you say." He turns towards the massive site of grave sites. "In the meantime, let's go look around!"

This is when Shiraishi wonders if this is what Fuji does in his spare time when he isn't playing tennis or being with Cactus. He wonders if Fuji has been to this cemetery before - that's why he seems to be so familiar with it.

He'd like to think that Fuji had to bury sweet old aunt Mina here when he was but a child. That, at least, would be a better reason than if a person went to strangers' funerals for the sole reason that they liked strangers' funerals.

Or maybe Fuji was brought up in one of those strange Catholic private schools with stingy headmasters. And they practiced math by going to the cemetery and subtracting the birth and death dates of tombstones there to find the answer. And then during the winter when diseases like typhoid struck the school, the students would have their physical education classes by digging their classmates' graves themselves.

No, no, no. Shiraishi shakes his head. Bad thoughts, he thinks, bad thoughts. Fuji was brought up in a perfectly normal Japanese family that upheld traditional values. They were not Catholics - but wait, didn't Yuuta, Fuji's younger brother, go to St. Rudolph's for middle school? And wasn't that a Catholic school?

He begins shaking his head again. No, no, no. Just because he went to a Catholic school doesn't mean he spent all his time in the cemeteries, and besides which, that was Fuji Yuuta and not Fuji Syuusuke.

But this place is still scaring him. There's a reason why Shiraishi has never been particularly fond of cemeteries, namely, _there are dead people here_.

Some restless ghost might decide to curse him because he looks the perfect target, and he'll have to spend the rest of his life trying to rid himself of bad luck. And oh! - what if he could never hit a perfect serve again? Or what if his Bible tennis stopped working?

These thoughts were too much. Bad karma, Shiraishi thinks, bad karma.

"What are you doing?"

Shiraishi nearly jumps.

"Oh! It's you!"

"Who else would it be?" Fuji says. He snakes his body as much as he can over Shiraishi, and Fuji whispers into his ear, "Unless...were you expecting someone?"

"No! I wasn't! Why would I meet someone in a cemetery in the first place?"

"Nah," says Fuji. "Just asking."

Shiraishi touches a hand to his chest; he feels his breathing calming down.

This is how they spend the night. Shiraishi shivers his way through and tries to think good, healthy thoughts, while Fuji sits on the grass all curled up, his arms wrapped around legs.

He wants to doze off, but something tells him that it isn't such a good idea; Shiraishi _must_ be strong. After all, Fuji looks like he could live here.

But still, his mind must have betrayed him. He comes to with Fuji's hand on his shoulder, his voice coming through to his ears, and it is saying, "Hey, wake up."

And then Shiraishi opens his eyes, and he sees Fuji, and Fuji sees him. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Fuji replies. "Look. The sun's rising."

And it is. It is just breaking dawn, but there it is; the bright sun greeting the new day. It swoops over the horizon slowly, but surely.

"Nice, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," Shiraishi slowly says. Then he adds, almost eager in his hopeful tone, "So, is this what all those couples look forward to in the morning? This sunrise?"

"No," says Fuji. "But it's very nice still, right?"

Shiraishi decides later that he must love Fuji - to a certain extent at least. After all, Fuji is still alive, and Shiraishi _has_ to admit that he'd rather visit Fuji at their apartment over a cemetery any day.


	5. Modeling

A/N: Challenge from rage-chan. The nude part was added by myself though. Please shoot me now, rage-chan.

Summary: Fuji tries to get Shiraishi to model for him . . . nude.

--

"Oh come on, you know you want to do it."

Then,

"Tell me, _what_ is so bad about it?

Finally,

"I'll pay you five hundred yen if you model for me."

This is the curious transition of Fuji's tactics. He first tries to cajole, then he tries to start an argument, but when all fails, he turns to bribery. Shiraishi sometimes thinks that this is why Fuji would make a good government official. He would be a master at bribing people--or extortion, or blackmailing for that matter.

He's almost surprised that Fuji hasn't resorted to those latter tactics so far, but he probably will soon enough.

"Never," says Shiraishi, folding his arms across his chest, a further indication of his blatant refusal. Fuji doesn't seem unhinged; not yet at least.

"It's not so bad, really," Fuji tries. The camera is hung on a neck brace that he places over his neck like a necklace. He adds, "All you have to do is pose. Smile. I take a few pictures, and bada-bing, you're done."

"But _nude?_" Shiraishi asks. "In your _dreams_. I refuse to shed my dignity just so closet perverts can jerk off."

"It's a very well established magazine," Fuji protests. "Think of it like this--only a few people are even _given_ an opportunity for a shoot like this. And I've been assigned as the photographer. I have full rein over this, or most of it. And then I ask you, Shiraishi Kuranosuke, if you would like to do this. For me." He brushes away some tears which Shiraishi suspects are fake. "But of course, if you don't, I can always ask someone else I suppose . . ."

"Do that," he retorts. "In any case, _I refuse_."

The (fake) tears are gone. Fuji stands up to his full height, but he still comes up short compared to Shiraishi.

"I ask a favor of you," he says in a very deliberate tone, "and you shoot me down. Couldn't you at least have the consideration of doing so in a more subtle way?"

"Like how?" Shiraishi says, but in his mind, he is on full guard. (_"Don't let your guard down." Tezuka Kunimitsu is channeling into him at this very moment_.)

"You could have led me up to a hopeful feeling before saying 'No'," Fuji says. "Or you could have given me reasons as to _why_ you couldn't do it. It'd be nicer, you know."

"Nothing is this world is nice," Shiraishi says. "There is no fair play out here in the real world. I can be as blunt as _I want_." He smiles a triumphant smile. Take that, Fuji!

"But what's so bad about it?" This is what Fuji comes up with. "It's not like you're ugly. Or fat. Or balding. Or any of the above." He accompanies this statement with a smug grin. "You've a _svelte_ figure. What's wrong with showing what you're born with?"

He lets the compliment linger on his tongue, and as he raises his eyebrows, his lips slightly part.

Ah, shameless praising. It's another one of Fuji's unheralded talents. Shiraishi has seen this before many times: from when they first argued over what color to paint the kitchen (blue for Shiraishi, beige for Fuji), to when they 'disagreed' on what design the tiles in the bathroom should have, to now. He can remember almost every instance of Fuji's shamelessness--but this is definitely a shoo-in for the Top Ten.

He sighs.

"Maybe so. But what if I don't care about showing it off?" His counter-argument. It's a good one, he thinks.

Fuji stiffens, but he's not done yet.

"Oh?" he says slowly. "So you're _embarrassed_ about showing off something that you . . . usually only reserve for me? I'm flattered. Really, I am."

Now he gulps. It was a better reply than Shiraishi had expected. Though, it isn't completely wrong, he has to admit, but like hell if he'll ever say that to Fuji.

"It's a matter of privacy," Shiraishi manages. "I am--and I admit this, okay?--uncomfortable with the idea of posing . . . _nude_."

"Why?" Fuji asks. His tone of pleasant surprise strikes Shiraishi as strange because _just how many naked people has Fuji seen in his lifetime to think that this is nothing strange? _He wonders if Fuji is secretly seeing someone besides him. After all, he _was_ having a rather long conversation with that Echizen Ryoma a few days ago. And he _had_ looked like he wouldn't mind talking for a few more hours if Shiraishi hadn't insisted very impatiently on them going out to dinner.

"I still have some sense of pride instilled within me," he says. "So the answer's no. As it always will be."

And so, Fuji has no choice but to concede for now. And Shiraishi thinks that he has won (for the first time, too) until he finds out that his name is signed down as the model-to-be with even his signature present, and it's a shoot scheduled for this very Thursday.

And this is when Shiraishi remembers (albeit a bit too late) that Fuji has always, always possessed an uncanny ability at _forgery_.


	6. Memories

A/N: Challenge from rage-chan.

Summary: While cleaning their apartment, Shiraishi finds an old scrapbook from Seigaku, filled with random snapshots, feeling ever more grateful by the minute that he did not go there.

--

Shiraishi thinks that if he ever sues Fuji, it would be for irreconcilable differences on the grounds of having a messy apartment.

He will say it now: _the apartment is a mess_.

"So?" says Fuji, being the messy and uncaring-for-hygiene specimen of the male sex he is. "It doesn't smell. Not yet at least."

But it does to Shiraishi. It smells like rotten socks that's been doused in cologne then stuffed behind a bed post for five weeks. He knows that because he roomed with Kintarou for a semester back in school (and it was one of his greatest regrets in his life, thank you very much), and that is what Kintarou did whenever he was confronted with the perspective of doing laundry.

There is something about laundry and the general appeal of cleaning that scares off the male sex. Shiraishi sometimes thinks he is the exception to the rule; and such a lonely existence it is! He feels as if no male can appreciate the sweetness of a freshly-cleaned room--all they care about is if the refrigerator has that brand of ramen that's worth dying for. He cites Fuji as first-rate evidence.

This is when Shiraishi takes matter into his owns hands, just as any man would, as he begins to clean.

He goes to the living room cabinets because it is so filled with tennis manuals that he almost isn't surprised to see pamphlets from almost ten years ago. One of them has Fuji on the cover; the title says, 'How to be a Genius'.

Shiraishi throws that one out.

Twenty minutes later, he has gone through the first cabinet, and he has thrown away a good majority of those pamphlets. This may be because he already knows how to do all of these strokes to near-perfection.

Then he finds it: a scrapbook, or what looks to be a photo album. He stops in his whirlwind of throwing away and de-cluttering.

He opens it, which is rather old and dates back to junior high: Seigaku.

The front page has a large picture spread. It shows the regulars; they are on the tennis court, but their rackets are nowhere to be seen. The boys look like they are dying of a combination of shock and constipation--this look of absolute horror is scribbled all over their faces.

"That was the Penal Tea incident."

Shiraishi shoots up. Fuji is bending over, his head peering towards his shoulder. Since when did he get home?

"Oh, the door was unlocked. You know, you should be more careful. Someone could just come in unnoticed and violate you in horrible ways." Fuji pauses and for a moment; then he adds, without shame, "Oh wait. That's me, isn't it?"

"Penal Tea?" Shiraishi asks, because that is a more comfortable topic for him to discuss rather than the various ways a person can be violated. (He knows what it is like: he's already experienced that before.)

"Yes, one of Inui's many drinks. Everyone thought it was disgusting though. I don't see why. Perhaps they weren't accustomed to such exquisite aroma."

Shiraishi frowns at Fuji, then looks back at the photo. He sees Kaidoh perched over the drinking fountain, his head leaning in as far as it goes. He sees Momoshiro's body in the background--or is that Oishi? Echizen's in the front, and the so-called Prince of Tennis looks like he's been knocked out cold. He gives Fuji another suspicious look.

"Huh," he says, and turns the page.

And sees the regulars again, this time at a bowling alley. He wouldn't have thought much of it, if not for the fact that everyone looked to be unconscious.

"That was Aozu," Fuji provides.

"Right," says Shiraishi, feeling happier by the second that he hadn't gone to that devil of a school called Seigaku. He spots Fuji in the background, stomach on ground, head turned away from the camera. There's no denying it: even Fuji was knocked out. "Hey," he says, noticing it, "hey."

"Turn the page," Fuji cheerfully interrupts.

They move on to random snapshots, using involving various unconscious regulars. Fuji tells him the name of each of the Inui drinks that produced the photo. Shiraishi gulps.

"So who, uh," he tries, "took these pictures?"

"I did," Fuji says. "Aren't they lovely photos? You know, that's how I got so interested in photography. I always took the team pictures."

"When they're unconscious?" Shiraishi can't help but mutter.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing."

Though, there's another question in mind. Who took that picture at the bowling alley? Especially since Fuji himself had gone off to lala-land?

Does he dare ask? To hell with it. He'll ask. "So who took that bowling alley picture?" Shiraishi says, as casually as he can. "The coach?"

"Nah," Fuji replies, "Ryuuzaki-sensei couldn't take Aozu at all." He flips back to the picture. "See?" he says, pointing to the body of a person whose legs are propped up over a bench, and whose body is somewhere hidden underneath the masses of other bodies. "There she is."

"Then. . .who took it?" Shiraishi prods, wondering if he is going to regret it. "You?"

"I can't get every picture, of course. That's why there's hidden cameras that I sometimes install. It helps a lot, you know, and you can get a lot of candid photos too. No one ever suspects it." He grins an eerie grin.

Shiraishi gulps again. And he sets down the scrapbook and goes to his room where he sits on his bed.

Then he looks up at the ceiling, wondering if Fuji's installed hidden cameras here. Or in the bathroom. Or anywhere else in the apartment.

But looking on the bright side (a small comfort in the grand scheme of things), he thinks that, well, at least he knows where Fuji gets all of his photos now.


	7. Think Pink!

A/N: challenge from rage-chan.

--

Sometimes, Shiraishi thinks that the soft comfy sofa in the living room is all he lives for at the end of the day. (This is a private thought, obviously, because Fuji would be upset if he knew. Then again, he might: psychics and Fuji unnervingly go hand-in-hand.)

It is a very comfy sofa, and it is made of leather. At least, Shiraishi likes to think so, because leather is soft and accommodating, and it allows him to believe, for a moment, that he is rich.

Not that he's poor, of course, because the Shiraishi lineage goes back to the days of the Meiji and before, and no Shiraishi has ever known the sordid life of poverty.

No, there have been only the several misfits that are bound to pop up every few generations, but that is a small problem when there is a solution called white-out, which blots out the unpleasant individuals on the Shiraishi family tree chart.

(Shiraishi remembers an uncle he rather liked, but the uncle married a foreigner, and the uncle was never seen again. His name has since vanished from the family tree, and he remembers being told a story about the uncle disappearing from a deep-sea expedition that was looking for sunken vessels. In life, his uncle had been an accountant.)

"Boo," says the voice behind him, and Shraishi is startled immensely. There is nothing more frightening than hearing a soft whisper of a voice being directed at your sensitive right ear while you are trying to sleep.

Fuji is hovering above him, a bright smile plastered on his face. It's not a good sign at all.

"Hello," he says, "you look tired."

"I _am_ tired."

"Why are you tired?"

"Why _can't_ I be tired?" Shiraishi unceremoniously flips to the other side so that he can look away from Fuji. His very traditional mother would be bemoaning this very un-Kuranosuke act right about now, but, really, he couldn't care less.

Fuji shrugs. "I'm not tired at all."

"Well, good for you."

"I don't understand why _you_ are."

The sort of conversation typically wears Shiraishi out for obvious reasons. It makes him wonder if Fuji has ever felt _tired_. He wonders if the word is part of Fuji's vocabulary arsenal, like bazooka and grip tape.

"Dinner's on the table, you know," Fuji informs him.

"Thank you. I'll eat later."

"No, you're going to eat now. And by now, I mean _now_."

"But I'm tired. I'm _stressed_. Do you know what that means?"

"Of course," says Fuji in a way that might be called Taken Aback. "But you need to eat to grow up strong and healthy." He smiles reassuringly in a way that is not reassuring at all.

"As if I'm going to grow anymore."

"Why not?" he replies, raising an eyebrow.

Shiraishi closes his eyes and tries to let the welcoming dark in, but there's a constant intruder to this utopia image. Fuji says, shaking Shiraishi's shoulders with both of his hands, "Wake up."

"Mmph," he mumbles. "I want to sleep. Please."

"Oh." Fuji nods, then continues to shake Shiraishi's poor shoulders. "Oh. I know what you need: a stress reliever."

"A what?"

"A stress reliever. It's one of those small bags of sand that you squeeze in your hand when you're feeling stressed. And then, voila! - you're relaxed," he adds. "I always have at least seven - you know, one for each color of the rainbow."

Shiraishi nods without actually quite listening. He finds an attractive-looking dust particle that is floating just above Fuji's left shoulder and stares intently at it.

"And I sometimes draw the faces of people onto those bags just to give it, you know, a more _personal_ touch to it."

Shiraishi nods, then does a double take. "Wait, _what_?"

Evidently, this is something that is not so shocking: Fuji merely grins. "Oh, you know. I had one with Kirihara on it when we were back in school. It didn't last very long. I think the bag burst open a week after I bought it. A pity, really. Not only did I have to get a replacement, but I had to draw his face on it again, and drawing consumes my precious time. Not that I mind it, of course, because drawing the faces of the conquered gives me inexplicable pleasure."

"Oh," Shiraishi breathes.

"Don't worry," Fuji says, as if he can read minds, "it's not like you're on any of those bags or anything. But I'm thinking of having your likeness embroidered onto my pillow. There's a guy I know - Ishida, I think, was his name - and he has lovely embroidery skills. You can have mine on your pillow too, so we can complement each other." Then, as if on cue, he smiles.

"Oh," Shiraishi says, albeit a bit weakly.

"I can give you a stress reliever now, actually. Of course, he's not exactly the sand bag I was talking about earlier. But Meyers is a special little friend of mine." And from his bag, Fuji produces a pink ribbon. "I've had him for a long time. I wouldn't part with him for the world, but I suppose," he shuffles his feet, "you're the exception."

Shiraishi gives him a flat look and tries not to laugh.

"Er," he intelligently says.

"Meyers," Fuji stresses, "he likes to be called Meyers."

"Meyers," repeats Shiraishi.

"Yes, and he's not particularly demanding at all. Very low-maintenance. Think of him as a pet, only more useful."

"Er," Shiraishi comments.

"And he likes to be near the sun, so when you're not using him, put him near the window. It lets him relax," Fuji continues. "I'm sure you'll love Meyers very much. He's very open, so you can tell him any of your problems. He listens."

Shiraishi stops and ponders the situation. If he does as Fuji is telling him, he would be, essentially, spilling his deepest and darkest secrets to a _pink ribbon_.

He thinks about it a little more, looks at Fuji who is holding Meyers in his hand as if it were the Koh-i-Noor diamond, and suddenly, the idea of having a pink ribbon doesn't seem so bad. In fact, it'd almost be a little ludicrous for him to _not_ have this precious pink ribbon. Clearly, Fuji's philosophies - good or otherwise - are rubbing off on him. He nods sagely and crosses his arms.

"The light at the end of the tunnel," Shiraishi says to no one in particular.

"That's called a train," Fuji helpfully adds.


	8. Inherit the Wisdom

A/N: Challenge from rage-chan.

--

Four times a week, three hours each time, making for a total of twelve hours per week.

This is the amount of time, every week, Shiraishi has to himself. Purely himself. This is the time when there is no one to bother him in the apartment. He can go out and do whatever he likes. He becomes free-spirited. He _is_ free.

This is known as Shiraishi's free time.

This is also known as Fuji's tennis practice times.

"I hope you won't be lonely," says Fuji, tennis bag over shoulder, apartment key in hand. He always locks the door when he is going out. He also always locks the door when he enters. Shiraishi sometimes wishes that, for the latter situation, he _didn't_ lock the door, because during those times Fuji always hides the key somewhere, and Fuji is good at hiding some things, others not as much, but that's another story.

"Don't bother about me," Shiraishi says in reply when Fuji asks such a question, which occurs four times a week, roughly sixteen times a month, which all adds up. In fact, Shiraishi is rather immune to it now. He's almost like a robot, so when he hears "I hope you won't . . ." he automatically says, "Don't bother about me."

However, this has led to some problems in the past, mostly for Shiraishi, such as the time when Fuji actually meant to say: "I hope you won't mind going out to buy some lube. Otherwise, we're all out."

To which Shiraishi had cut him off and quickly assured him: "Don't bother about me." But this is yet another story.

So now Shiraishi waits for Fuji to finish his question before replying. He finds it almost annoying sometimes, having to wait for Fuji to finish his sentence when ninety-nine times out of one hundred he will merely be saying: "I hope you won't be lonely."

But he can't risk it. And sometimes Fuji asks something else, just to test him. Pure amusement purposes; how exactly does a genius's brain work? Shiraishi can only sigh.

Today is one of the ninety-nine times. After he replies, "Don't bother about me," Fuji smiles that mysterious smile and he exits out. Shiraishi can hear the firm click as Fuji decidedly locks the door.

And then he is left alone. For three hours. The possibilities are immense. The starry-eyed kid in the toy store. The starry-eyed young man facing the absolute quiet of his own apartment.

Often during these three-hour breaks, Shiraishi does his homework. Or sometimes he pays the bills, because it is never fun to do the bills with Fuji around. Yet other times, he watches dramas because deep down, Shiraishi has a soft spot for dramas. These are the old dramas from the sixties and seventies when the blood looks fake and everyone has an overabundance of it. The girls cry every five seconds for their lost lover and their subsequent replacements. The men are all either playboys or samurais who chop up anyone who asks for directions.

How could he help but love it?

His mother had been the one to share it with him. Having Shiraishi as the only boy in the family meant that his mother was often at a loss at how to bring him up: the obvious thing to do then was girl up her son. As a child, Shiraishi had been no stranger to perfect hair, a neat and updated-every-six-months wardrobe, and the intense dislike of having his hair pulled by interested children.

As he grew older, it was only reasonable that his mother impart on him the wisdom a mother should: drama knowledge. His mother has a particular weakness for the Korean ones; Shiraishi leans towards the Japanese dramas. Both mourn the state of dramas in this day and age. It is mutually agreed upon that the classics are infinitely better.

Fuji, on the other hand, watches yakuza thrillers, the ones that have blood squirted all over the screen every five seconds. This is not the metaphorical, slow-motion-blood-amidst-falling-sakura-leaves, as Shiraishi is accustomed to seeing. This is the harsh, in-your-face blood that takes on a color closer to tingy orange than to lustrous red.

At night, when one ought to be asleep, Fuji watches these thrillers. There are twenty-four hours in a day, but Fuji picks the last two as the best time to watch people shoot up gangs and gangs of people before shooting himself up. Occasionally, it is a girl doing the shooting.

Shiraishi cannot not stand it. "Please," he might say, "can't you watch somewhere else? or sometime else? After all, it only happens to be eleven-thirty."

"They only show the crime movies at this time."

For a good reason, Shiraishi thinks, and says aloud, "Then rent the movie. Something. Anything but this."

Sometimes Shiraishi suspects that, just as he and his mother share an interest in dramas, the Fuji family shares an interest in generally violent movies. Fuji Yuuta, who proclaims to hate his brother, will curl up besides a television and watch a man decapitate his enemies before disemboweling them while Mizuki Hajime throws up beside him.

Even Fuji's sister, Yumiko, has an overly fond interest of the gypsy character in movies who leads everyone to their mysterious deaths. And he can only imagine what the parents are like.

Suddenly, Shiraishi decides that he is very scared of the Fuji family, and that the only cure for this is to watch a drama, which he promptly sets into the DVD player. Five minutes later, and he is instantly soothed. The female protagonist, Maya, has just rejected her long-time lover to marry her fiancee because she finds it more interesting to have an affair after she's married rather than before. Complications quickly arise . . .

"I'm home," comes a voice, and this is when Shiraishi realizes that time had traveled more quickly than he would have liked it to had. Three hours lost, he sadly thinks.

Before he manages to turn off the TV, however, Fuji sees the distinctly cheap costumes on the screen and he is already demanding, "Okay. Explain this now. Five seconds should be sufficient."

For just as Shiraishi harbors a dislike for un-metaphorical blood, Fuji harbors a dislike for maidens who believe that telling everything to her mother will solve her love and relationship problems.

"Er," says Shiraishi.

"Your five seconds," Fuji replies, "are up."

And then, he locks the apartment door behind him. Firmly, decidedly. The key is gone, as if by magic. And Shiraishi dies just a little on the inside.


	9. Epiphany

A/N: Challenge from rage-chan, which was:

Fuji is caught out in the rain without an umbrella, until Shiraishi comes along . . . with a bright multicolored one.

--

There are times when Fuji doesn't mind the rain. He rather likes the dripping wet feeling and the cold water against his skin. For one thing, he sometimes likes to play tennis in the rain, never mind the fact that it's dangerous and the fear of catching cold is always on everyone's mind except for his. The pros outweigh the cons and Fuji is too much of a genius to catch a cold anyway.

The rain is soft and gentle; there is a prickly feeling, but Fuji likes to think that it is reminder that he is alive.

He remembers playing tennis in the rain on more than one occasion; he remembers his shoes skidding along the baseline, his grip growing wet from the water. He can't tell if his sweat is really sweat or from the downpour. And he feels part of the world, that universal idea that rain can fall almost anywhere, and what he is experiencing now can be found in America, in Europe, in Australia.

Those are the good times.

The bad times are when he is standing by the bus-stop and there seems to be no end to the rain. The buses run late and, because of the weather, go slowly, so the times are all behind schedule. The time reads six twenty-two, and right now, Fuji is just getting a bit sick of the rain.

Cars and taxis fly past him. He cannot afford a car - nor can he drive, but that's beside the point - and as a student living month to month, he somehow cannot find it within him to fork up the money for taxi fare. So he stands in the rain and waits. And waits. And waits.

At this particular bus-stop, there is no underpass, and there isn't any sort of shelter nearby. Just two bus signs and a long cement road; for a long time, no cars pass by.

His hair is soaked wet, and the water is beginning to permeate through his jacket. His book bag is hung over one shoulder: he is keenly aware of the fact that his books will be completely wet by the time he gets home.

He wonders what it is taking so long. Time passes slowly and he forgets how long he's been waiting. Ten minutes? thirty minutes? an hour? It's all the same.

"What are you doing here?"

And Fuji turns and sees his savior—

Who turns out to be Shiraishi holding a multicolored umbrella that is blue and purple and pink and brown all mixed together, making for a detestable mixture of color. But that does not matter right now.

"I was waiting for the bus," he explains. "What are you doing here?"

"Funny," says Shiraishi, "I was coming to wait for the bus, too. Did you miss it?"

"It's late. About thirty-five minutes behind schedule. I shall have to write a letter to the company in complaint."

"It's raining. It's probably been held up." Leave it to Shiraishi to point out the logical reasoning behind it - it's not that Fuji doesn't see it himself; it's just that when Shiraishi says so, it seems to make more sense.

"Yeah, well, still. You have an umbrella. I don't."

"We can share," and Shiraishi holds the umbrella over the two of them. "You'll catch cold, won't you?"

"I won't. I'm never sick. Never."

"You might jinx yourself this time, you know. You know what they say."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

Shiraishi shrugs. "What do you want me to say?"

"Maybe something along the lines of the bus being here. Or maybe you have a car hidden around here somewhere so I can drive home and go to sleep."

"You mean, drive _us_ home?"

He blinks. "Oh, yeah."

"And in the first place, you can't drive," Shiraishi duly points out.

"I can learn."

"Not on a rainy day."

A pause. "There's this movie," Fuji suddenly says. "I don't remember much about it. There's a guy and there's a girl. It's raining. The girl's looking for a cat, which she eventually finds. And she's happy and the guy's happy. And they kiss. And then it ends. It's a happy ending."

"What of it?" asks Shiraishi, perplexed.

"I don't know. Maybe I was suggesting that I sort of wanted something in compensation. You know, for waiting out here so long. And in the cold. It's so _cold_. And I didn't have an umbrella. Still don't, for that matter."

"You're the one who refused the umbrella this morning."

Fuji looks again at the detestable umbrella with its hideous combination of colors and poor decisions in aesthetic taste.

"Suppose you were kind-hearted and forgot about that."

"Suppose you just admitted that you forgot something and that you're human. Just like everyone else."

It reminds Fuji of that human feeling he gains from the rain; that feeling which somehow seems to elude him during sunny skies and perfect weather. It takes imperfection to create perfection. It seems philosophical, empathetic. It's the epiphany in the rain. It's like a song name.

"Kiss me," says Fuji, "just for the hell of it."

"In the rain?" Shiraishi says.

"Yeah. In the rain."

"Why?"

"Does everything need a reason? Does anything need a reason?" Fuji has a good persuading voice. Shiraishi is persuaded.

So he does kiss him, just as the bus arrives before them; the driver looks out and sees two young people offering a very public display of affection. He sighs a nostalgic sigh and then, before either of them notice, he drives off again.


End file.
